In the Sinking Sand
by mistfarer
Summary: Stiles tries to keep the pack together after Derek gets hurt.


(A/N: Written for tw_holidays on LJ.)

* * *

"God, Stiles, he won't stop bleeding," Erica says, panic rising in her voice. Her words are choked, worry lacing every syllable. "Why won't Derek stop bleeding?"

She's on the verge of tears, he can tell, and Stiles is at a loss. He wants to comfort her, to say that it will all be okay, but he doesn't. Instead, he grips the steering wheel tighter and drives faster. He's almost home and Stiles makes that his mantra. He needs to get home - needs to get them all home, needs to get them to safety.

He spares a brief glance at his mirror - they're not being tailed, and he thanks god for small mercies. Erica has her arm around Derek, holding him up against her body. She looks small and frail against the small sliver of moonlight falling upon them, her face ashen and tight as she eyes the growing spatter of blood pooling on Derek's shirt. Boyd is flanking Derek's other side, one hand stretched across Derek's back, reaching over to touch Erica as the other rests over Derek's stomach.

"Make sure you keep pressure on that gash, Boyd. Need to contain the bleeding," Scott says quietly. Stiles jerks his head to look at as his friend and he swallows a lump in his throat. He doesn't think he's ever seen Scott like this. Scott's body is thrumming, practically vibrating off his seat, hands flexing and retracting almost as if he has no control over them. Stiles takes an inventory over the bruises on Scott's face, healing now, the black angry welts softening into sickly yellow swathes over his skin. There's a small cut running across Scott's forehead, just above his right brow. It's closing and Stiles knows not even a barely there scar will remain in its stead. There won't be a reminder of it tomorrow, but Stiles can't think past the reddish brown clots blotting Scott's wound.

He feels a hand on his thigh, firm and steady, heavy in its wake. "Drive, Stiles." Isaac's voice washes over him and he nods. "Get us home."

Stiles takes a deep breath and pushes on the pedal harder. He tries not to think about smell of copper permeating the jeep, the palpable distress emanating from his friends. He can do this. He can get them to safety.

And so he drives.

* * *

Derek loses consciousness just as they arrive at Stiles' house.

"We need to take him up to my room," Stiles says. His voice is terse and short, his face pulled into a tight line. "You guys okay to take him up there? I need to get the first aid kit ready."

He sees Isaac nod affirmatively in his direction. Erica and Boyd are still flanked around Derek, with Scott at Derek's back. Isaac nudges Erica gently and gingerly takes Derek's arms away from her shoulders and places them on his own. Erica protests, a soft whine coming from her throat, but Isaac shushes her and steers her towards the stairs.

Stiles wretches his eyes away from the pack.

He's just glad they got to Derek on time. It had taken them a while to figure out where the Alpha pack took Derek, and the resulting battle hadn't been easy. There are tell-tale signs of fatigue and exhaustion marring everyone's step, along with varying degrees of bruises and cuts.

They're okay. They're all okay except for Derek. But Derek _will_ be okay. He has to be.

Stiles doesn't know if they're safe here in his house, but he hasn't felt safe in months. They're all together, though, and in the end, that's all the matters.

* * *

Stiles dresses Derek's wounds as best as he can. Derek's sitting on his chair, still unconscious, Erica helping him stay upright. It's not the first time he's had to clean Derek's blood, but it's the first time he's had to stitch him up. Alpha strikes are designed to hurt, to last, to make an example of, and the Alpha pack certainly tried to make an example out of Derek.

The betas are hovering around him, silent, but there's an anxious energy busting through the seams in the room. Stiles makes quick work on Derek and it doesn't take long until he's doing a last check on Derek's injuries. Once he's satisfied that all of the cuts have been properly stitched and bandaged, he quietly motions for Boyd to move Derek to his bed.

Isaac is the first to shuck away his clothes methodically and join Derek in bed. "He needs us," he says to no one in particular, but the rest of the pack takes it as a personal plea and they all follow soon enough; one by one, Erica next, then Boyd, then finally Scott. The four of them surround Derek in a heap of limbs, mindful of his wounds, but still maintaining some sort of contact with Derek's skin.

He hadn't thought four teenagers and an adult could fit on his bed, but somehow, the betas make it work.

"Stiles?" Isaac gives him a quizzical look. "You coming?"

Stiles doesn't think he'd fit. He stares at the way the five of them are tangled together, and Stiles feels like an intruder – like he doesn't belong. So he shakes his head, citing the need to clean up, to research, and he leaves.

* * *

Stiles has never been grateful for his Dad to be away at a conference before, but he is now. He's glad he doesn't have to think of a flimsy explanation for why he has four teenagers and an ex-fugitive crumpled together in his bed.

Needing something to do with his hands, Stiles putters around the living room and tidies up. He tries to block out the last thirty six hours from his mind, but he can't. He remembers when Scott called him and told him Derek's been missing – been _taken_ and he remembers feeling like the air has been sucked out around him. He remembers the extent of relief he felt when they found Derek badly beaten, but still alive.

Not for the first time tonight, not even for the tenth time, he's glad they got there just in time.

Stiles heads into the kitchen to find the betas something to eat. He makes sandwiches and grabs a few water bottles, carrying them with him upstairs. The wolves are sleeping, the rise and fall of their chests syncing up with Derek's, so he leaves the food on his desk for when they wake up.

His hands are shaking. Stiles needs to touch Derek – feels compelled to be near him, to make sure he's real and he's there and he's alive. He takes a few steps forward, but he stops, scrunching his nose, because it doesn't feel right.

He remembers he's not _pack_.

Stiles leaves them be with one more last glance.

* * *

He comes back to his room the next morning, and he expels a large breath he hadn't known he's been holding when he sees Derek is awake. Derek still looks groggy and out of sorts, but he's conscious again, and Stiles feels the stifling heaviness around him lift.

Derek's okay.

"Thank you," Derek rasps, his voice strangled and strained.

Stiles tries to wave his hand casually. "I'm just glad you're awake," he replies. "Do you need anything?"

The betas are still asleep, he thinks, still curled around their Alpha, not making a move. Stiles still feels like he's intruding, so when he sees Derek shake his head, he wills his feet to move and makes his way out.

Derek calls out to him just as he's reached the door. "Stay. Please."

"There's no room." Stiles tries to keep his voice light.

"Stay," Derek just says again.

Stiles sees Isaac shuffle and shift at the corner of his eyes. Isaac is burrowing himself closer against Scott, a small, small gap of space opening between him and Derek.

Stiles knows he shouldn't stay, that he's not really needed.

But Derek calls out to him again. "Stay, Stiles." It's more insistent that time. Derek's still raspy, but there's no denying the solid weight behind his words.

Stiles finally relents and joins them. There's not enough space – a queen bed was never meant to hold six people, he thinks, and he ends up close to Derek, his body practically splayed on top of him. It can't be all that comfortable, and Stiles is afraid he's pushing too close against Derek's bandages, but Derek pulls him closer and that's that.

None of them speak anymore after that, but Stiles feels Isaac lean against him, Isaac's head falling on the small of his back. Then Scott reaches to lay his arm on both Isaac and Stiles, his hand falling on Derek's shoulder.

It's almost too hot, too much body heat, but Stiles welcomes it all gladly. "Let go, Stiles," he hears Derek whisper against his temples. Stiles tucks his head on the crook of Derek's neck and he falls apart. Suddenly, he can't get the image of Derek bleeding and broken when they first found him out of his head. Derek just pulls him in even more, whispering, "You did good, Stiles, you kept our pack safe."

Stiles feels Derek move a little, his lips ghosting over Stiles' ear, then over the side of Stiles' neck. "We're okay," he continues softly. "You kept us together."

Then he feels Erica's hand cover his hand, her fingers lacing over his own. "Come on, Pops," she says, "Dad's fine now. Go to sleep."

And so he closes his eyes and he does. Stiles doesn't think about the implications of her words because whatever this is – Derek's arm wrapped around him, Isaac pressed against his back, Erica's hand in his - it feels right. It feels safe, it feels like _pack_, it feels like home.


End file.
